


Citadel

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M, Sleeplessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle can't sleep; naturally he wakes Bodie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Citadel

Jolted from sleep, his heart pounding and his skin slick with the night sweat of panic, Doyle lay staring into the darkness while he waited for his brain to remind his body that he was safe. This was the fourth time he had started awake in under two hours; irritated by his inconveniently active imagination, he accepted that his over-tired brain, which kept playing and replaying the scene in the warehouse, wasn't ready to relax enough to permit him untroubled sleep just yet.

Bugger it, he thought irritably as he squinted at his watch and realised he had every right to feel tired. Having worked an eighteen hour day, at this time of the morning anyone with any sense was fast asleep.

It certainly wasn't for want of trying to sleep. He'd been tucked up in bed since just after eleven - for all the good it had done him. He'd tried all the usual remedies but nothing seemed to work. If he counted any more sheep he wouldn't be able to look a lamb chop in the face. Then he'd tried relaxation exercises. All they'd done was to lock sinews and tendons until his neck felt like a gridlock of knotted muscle. He didn't need to pee, and it was too cold to think of getting up to make a hot drink, or to have a walk round. Doyle knew things must be desperate when he realised he didn't even fancy a wank.

His nerve-ends still vibrating at the slightest noise, he stared up at the dim outline of the ceiling while he listened first to the familiar night-time creaks and groans from his flat, then to the noises of the city outside his windows. London never really slept, even on a winter's night. There were always distant sounds from the busy main roads: blasts from car horns or the muffled but insistent shriek of a siren from one of the emergency services. Even when they were quiet there was always a faint but discernible throb of life, as if the city were some dangerous predator dozing between kills.

Doyle punched irritably at his pillow, a wave of exhausted depression washing over him. Trying to empty his mind, he heard the sound of carefree laughter outside, despite the three a.m. chill of the January morning: young lovers at play, heedless of anything but themselves.

Sighing, Doyle supposed he must have been like that once. He couldn't remember any more. His sense of isolation from the world around him intensified until the loneliness was a blunt unrelenting pain.

He closed his eyes as if trying to keep the unwanted emotions at bay. It didn't work of course and he continued to feel as if he was the only living soul in Fulham, despite all the evidence to the contrary. He certainly didn't feel capable of connecting with anyone. Maybe he never had.

He could understand why so many people turned up their toes at this time of the morning. The body at its lowest ebb, the utter futility of existence reinforced itself.

What the hell was it all about?

Biology, that's what.

Survival of the fittest.

The imperative to reproduce from the best possible genetic material.

It was ironic. All the intellectual wanking in the world couldn't get away from the fact that you were only here on earth to contribute your mite to the gene pool.

Scratch that idea.

A genetic zero, that was Ray Doyle.

Born and died, leaving nothing behind to show he had ever existed.

With a natural contrariness Doyle's expression lightened. The thought of buggering up nature's grand evolutionary plan appealed no end. The temptation to sample all the gorgeous birds he'd been lucky enough to meet had been too great to resist - until the game lost its savour. Not that his selection of partners had had anything to do with finding the fittest. That said, there had been that gymnast Bodie had fixed him up with.

Doyle gave a reminiscent grimace and rubbed his groin. She - Judy was it? - had almost ruined him for life. Lucky he'd already decided against siring children really.

Doyle had seen to that side of things years ago. Ignoring the warnings of the national health doctors that he was too young to know his own mind, he had gone private and bought himself a vasectomy when he was twenty-three. He'd had no intention of following the family tradition of littering his bastards the length and breadth of the country. In the years since he had never regretted that choice.

His childless state meant that any marks that needed making he'd make on his own account, thank you very much. He'd seen what could happen to those who looked to their children for immortality. He'd had first hand experience of the burden that imposed on the kids, for that matter.

Besides, he didn't have time to waste being some brat's grandad, he intended to be a dirty old man.

The idea of being old enough to be a grandfather was ludicrous enough to make him snort with scornful disbelief, as if he was immune from the aging process. With unthinking arrogance he gave a luxurious stretch, taking the responsive flex of supple muscles and taut skin for granted. His hand slid from nipple to belly to lax but attentive genitals, confirming that he didn't have to worry about the ravages of time just yet.

The soft patter of rain against the window strengthened until it became obvious it was hail that was being hurled against the glass. Thankful to be snug in bed rather than stuck on some freezing surveillance, Doyle gave a relaxed wriggle of sheer well-being.

Amazing how it could cheer you up to think of some other poor sod suffering, he thought drowsily, having remembered that Anson and Jax were stuck out in the wilds of Hampshire with heavy snowfalls forecast.

Curling onto his side, Doyle's expression softened when his change of position offered him the outline of the soft-breathing sleeper beside him. Trust Bodie to be enjoying the untroubled sleep of the unjust, he thought without rancour.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Doyle drew the covers a little higher over his partner's shoulder. He smiled when he saw the lax fist curled beside Bodie's nose. Bodie had beautiful hands; they were the sort of hands that could mend or protect or heal anything he put his mind to; the sort that had the ability to make everything all right.

If it wasn't for Bodie he would have been spending the night in some refrigerated drawer waiting for the pathologist's knife.

Survival of the fittest.

Right.

The odds of surviving increased dramatically when you had Bodie at your side. Even on their worst days they were a good team.

Hitching up the covers because his nose was cold offered a waft of their sleep-warmed bodies. Giving a wistful sigh, Doyle wished Bodie would wake up. It would have been ease itself to help the process along but with a super-human effort of will Doyle resisted temptation. Bodie needed his sleep.

As if sensing something amiss Bodie stirred, murmured something indistinct and threw an arm over Doyle's flank.

On this occasion Doyle felt no more than obscurely comforted by the possessive contact of that relaxed but heavy weight. He blindly ran his palm from Bodie's wrist to his forearm and back again.

When it came to leaving his mark on the world a dirty thumb print seemed about the best he could hope for. Though there were times when the job seemed worth doing; when it seemed as if what he did made a difference.

Not because of the people he had killed but because of those alive because of him. Let them go forth and multiply. Come to that they were welcome to go fifth and do long division. They were nothing to do with him any more, thank god.

That religion where if you saved someone's life they became your responsibility must be a right bugger. Who needed it? Life was complicated enough as it was.

A thought occurring to him, Doyle's eyes shot open. He studied the sleeping face so close to his own, Bodie's face relaxed and open in the terrible vulnerability of sleep.

Bodie was his responsibility, of course. Just as he was Bodie's.

That was different.

Strange, but different.

His hand still resting on a muscular forearm, Doyle wondered how Bodie could have come to mean so much to him without him noticing it happening. But then nothing about his relationship with Bodie had ever gone according to plan.

The first day they'd worked together he'd decided to off-load Bodie at the end of the month. Doyle still didn't know what had gone wrong with that plan, apart from the fact he'd been livid to discover Bodie had been trying to lose him after their first week. It was aggravating to realise that Cowley had known what he was doing when he paired them after all.

Not that Cowley knew that. Or not all of it. At least I hope he doesn't. Doyle went cold at the very thought; not because he was ashamed of loving Bodie but at the thought of Cowley's dry mind dissecting their relationship. What he had with Bodie wasn't for Cowley to paw over.

Recognising the possessiveness of the thought, Doyle wrinkled his nose in self-disparagement. Over the top as usual, he thought with resignation.

Even Bodie couldn't work miracles though. It didn't matter how big or small your family, how many and varied your lovers, or how close you managed to get to another human being; that closeness was an illusion. When push came to shove nothing could overcome the terrible separateness every human being had to endure. Born alone, die the same way. They were the two things everyone had in common and that they all spent so much time trying to deny.

Maybe you really grew up when you accepted that bleak truth. Whether you accepted it or not the fact remained that everyone was sentenced to solitary confinement inside their own skin. No remission or time off for good behaviour.

And yet...

Doyle gave a crooked smile in which exasperation and tenderness were mixed as he stared at the dark head which had somehow insinuated itself onto his pillow.

There were exceptions to every rule.

Sometimes you found someone who could fill the empty places; someone who could provide the completion you had never known you hungered for until it was yours. But it was terrifying to feel so much for someone - Bodie. It scared the shit out of him in case he fucked it up. And he hated being so reliant on someone else for his happiness.

It couldn't possibly last. These days nothing did.

Of course, there were exceptions; couples who made it.

Reaching out, he lightly touched a duvet covered portion of Bodie. Whatever happened, even if it ended tomorrow and Bodie decided he wanted out, Doyle knew he would never regret anything - except the fact he hadn't been enough for Bodie.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, or some such bollocks. Better still to knock the silly bugger out cold and sit on him until he saw sense, mused Doyle, wondering if he could summon up the energy to push back the duvet. Their combined body heat had created a formidable fug.

The draught which ensued when he raised a portion of duvet changed Doyle's mind.

Warmth wasn't the only thing he and Bodie shared. Right now his body smelt of Bodie, just as Bodie must smell of him. They shared the air they breathed, recycling each other's breath. His fingerprints would be spread across Bodie's skin, just as the reverse must be true. He decided he liked the idea of wearing Bodie's fingerprints scattered all over his body. Of course, they must share less sexy things too. For a start they must both be littered with flakes of dry skin and loose hair. They probably exchanged those microscopic bug things which lived on everyone, too.

It must be bloody traumatic being a bug. One moment you were minding your own business, happily browsing in a forest of hair, next minute you were scrabbling for purchase in Bodie's crop with a chilly breeze up your bum.

Doyle absently scratched an itch. When five more equally urgent itches made themselves known he resolved to steer his thoughts away from bugs.

He knew the secretions of Bodie's body almost as intimately as his own: sweat, semen, saliva. And the rest.

Moisture. The essence of life.

Nine-tenths of the human body was made up of water. Or was it one-tenth? Whichever it was, water came into it.

It was hard to beat the pleasure of a juicy mouthful of Bodie.

Doyle had never thought of himself as a particularly oral person. Love bites had lost their attraction when he was sixteen. Carried away in the throes of adolescent passion he had almost ended up in hospital when his girlfriend, livid at the thought of having to explain the bite on her neck to her mum, had kneed him in the bollocks. He'd thrown up into Christine's new shoes and that had been the end of that beautiful romance. But he couldn't seem to keep his mouth off Bodie, licking and sucking and nibbling at him. There was something particularly succulent about Bodie's arse. Not that he'd ever tell him as much, of course.

Doyle had the vague suspicion that there wouldn't be any point. Despite the moronic mercenary act he had perfected over the years Bodie was far from being stupid. Equally, he was nowhere near as self-sufficient as he liked to make out. From the warmth with which he opened up to a bit of loving it was hurtfully obvious that he'd had far too little in his life.

Soon make up for that, Doyle thought, placing his mouth to Bodie's upper arm: not an area he'd ever found a particular turn-on in the past.

There were some bits of the human body that were never going to catch on as erogenous zones. Elbows for two. And knees. In fact legs altogether on a bloke. Well, calves. He wouldn't swop Bodie's thighs.

Blimey, I have got it bad, Doyle mocked himself, afflicted with goosebumps as their new togetherness, resulting from Bodie's change of position, meant that warm breath gusted with monotonous regularity into the hollow of his neck.

Dribble and I'll kill you, Doyle promised the sleeper, getting a crick in his neck as he stared at the dark head. But he knew Bodie would. He always did.

Who said romance was dead?

It depended what you thought was romantic. A soft, loving heart and a hard cock would do him any day.

Betraying its empathic abilities Bodie's penis stirred against Doyle's thigh, like someone half-asleep who thinks they've heard their name being called.

Arousal having been only a breath away, Doyle made a soft sound deep in his throat and climbed on board.

Bodie's response time was as good as ever.

"Are you awake?" demanded Doyle suspiciously, when strong hands settled on his flanks.

"Give me a break." Bodie rapidly moved from indignation to apology, knowing which would work the best. "It was only the once. Ages ago. And even then I knew it was you really. My brain and mouth weren't connected, that's all. Honest," he cajoled as he encouraged some changes in their relative positions.

Because Bodie's stroking hands were working their usual magic, Doyle allowed Bodie to do whatever he wanted with him, although he made a token display to prove he hadn't mellowed completely.

"Say anything at this stage, you would," he said weakly.

"Not anything," corrected Bodie pausing from nip-biting Doyle's stubble-darkened chin and lower lip while his fingers curled over the top of Doyle's skull. "Wouldn't say I loved you if I didn't mean it."

"Much," scoffed Doyle with scorn, but insecurity loitered in the shadows.

Bodie paused, his eyes narrowing. "Listen, you stubborn little git," he growled in unloverlike tones. "Sometimes I mean what I say."

"Ah, but do you say what you mean?" Having absorbed the truth of what he had been told, the smile in Doyle's eyes was one rarely seen by anyone except Bodie.

It took Bodie, lust-blind, a moment to work that out.

"Bloody sauce," he growled, changing his grip. "Say sorry."

"I'll say anything you like while you've got me by the short and curlies," lied Doyle, nuzzling the stern mouth above his own. It softened and parted to accommodate him.

Their bodies shifting and changing position as they curled around each other, they kissed slowly, and with great concentration, intent solely on one another.

Nudging Bodie's forehead with his nose as they paused to recover their breath, Doyle's fingers stroked the broad back bent over him. After several false starts he abandoned whatever it was he had been about to say and found Bodie's mouth with his own again.

Moist mouthed kisses deepened as pure pleasure trapped them. Body glued sweatily to body and mouth locked to mouth as they fed from each other, they rocked and ground and thrust until the storm of wanting was satiated.

"We're getting very good at doing this without letting in any cold air," remarked Doyle some time later, a wonderful lethargy dragging weighted eyelids to a close.

His only reply was some deep even breathing.

"Bloody marvellous," grumbled Doyle sotto voce. "I might have wanted to say something important."

"No risk of that," a familiar voice assured him. "I already know there's no milk for the tea, that the TV's on the blink and that you love me. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Of all the smug - "

A firm hand covered his mouth.

"If you wake us both up just to have an argument I'll kill you," Bodie promised him pleasantly.

Doyle studied the face opposite his own.

"You're getting very masterful," he said. Giving a sleepy grin, and with one of Bodie's capable hands cradling the back of his neck, Doyle broke the habit of a lifetime and did as he'd been told without an argument.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Completed 17th May 1995
> 
> Printed in ‘Leather and Blue Jeans 2'


End file.
